


Sweet Dreams

by Onesmartcookie78



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Eventual AU, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, First Kiss, Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV First Person, POV Original Female Character, Present Tense, Scheming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:00:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22885162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onesmartcookie78/pseuds/Onesmartcookie78
Summary: Samantha Sanchez is just trying to make it through her sophomore year as class president while remaining top of her class. Unfortunately, Scott McCall is acting weird, and it's her presidential duty to figure out why...that, and Stiles Stilinski suddenly thinks she has some sort of super powers. Stiles/OCJoin my Discord!
Relationships: Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Lydia Martin/Jackson Whittemore, Stiles Stilinski/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 27





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so excited to introduce my latest foray into fanfiction, Sweet Dreams. I'm honestly not sure when I'll get around to updating this fic, but in the mean time, please read and review!
> 
> Thanks so much to MjrGenMatt for being a great Beta (even though he hasn't even watched Teen Wolf)!

_W a k e u p ._

_Wake UP._

_wAkE uP._

_WAKE UP._

I sit up in bed, practically gasping for breath, unable to remember what I had dreamt. The more I try to press my memory, the further from my grasp it slips.

I scrub a hand over my eyes in tired frustration and chance a glance at my phone. The harsh glow has me squinting before the screen automatically adjusts to the darkness. It’s only 5:30. I groan as I flop back down. Christ. It’s the first day of school and I’m not going to have slept well. I roll over and take a cursory look over my socials, doubting I’ve missed anything important in the five hours since I last looked, but doing so anyway out of habit.

Yep. Nothing.

I throw myself out of bed and into some workout clothes—at least I’ll be able to get in a run this morning.

Once I’ve reached a mile, I turn around and head back to my house. I take a shower, eat some toast, and have a cup of coffee before my parents even wake up.

“Good morning, sweetheart, you’re up early,” my mom says through a yawn as she goes for the pot of coffee. “Didn’t sleep well?”

I glance up from my phone. “Huh? Oh, yeah, no.”

She nods, adjusting her doctor’s coat. It’s freshly bleached and starched, and based on the crispness of the sleeves, ironed as well. She’s dressed to impress, that’s for sure. “You should drink more water, limit your screen time,” she recommends, peering at me from over her glasses, “it’ll help you sleep better.”

Somehow I doubt dehydration is to blame for whatever dream woke me up, but I don’t say anything. “Where’s dad?”

Her expression falls. “He’s not feeling well today, Sam. You should go see him before you leave, I’m sure he’d love to wish you a good first day.”

I nod and rise to go do so. He’s recovering from a recent round chemo, and I know that some days are rougher than others, so I’m used to taking him food in bed, hoping that he’ll be able to keep it down. He’s spending more and more time cooped up there, but my parents refuse to tell me about his health status, so I have no idea how he’s really doing. I think they don’t tell me because they don’t want me to worry, but all it ends up doing is making me even more worried; fear of the unknown, and all that.

As I’m opening the door, I receive an email from the vice principal—there’s a new student and, as class president, he’s hoping that I’ll keep an eye on her today.

“Samantha, is that you lurking outside?” my dad calls just as I’m about to reply to the email. I hastily shove my phone back into my pocket and open the door.

“Yeah, sorry,” I reply, making my way over to the bed and sitting down on my mom’s side. “Just got distracted for a second.”

He nods to himself from his propped-up position. “You look nice, kid,” he finally says. “Get your mom to take some pictures for me. It’s hard to see in this light.” He gestures to the drawn curtains.

“You need your sleep,” I say, dismissing him with a wave of my hand. “I don’t mind.”

“Still,” he says through a sigh, “it’s not every day that my little girl has her first day as a sophomore in high school. I wish I felt well enough, Sam, I’m sorry.”

I have to force myself not to cry. “I know, dad,” I say, and it comes out more choked than I’d like it to be.

One hug from my dad, a dozen photos, and a kiss on the cheek from my mom later, I was finally free to drive to school. I back into my assigned spot and go directly to the main office to meet with the Vice Principal, who chastises me for never having replied to his email. I apologize profusely, unwilling to get into the reasons why I hadn’t done so. It isn’t like the man cares anyway. He gives me a copy of the new girl’s schedule. _Allison Argent_. That’s a pretty name, almost like a superhero.

“She’s already been on a tour,” the vice principal informs me, then gestures to the paper once more. “You two should have very similar schedules, so just make sure she gets to her classes, okay, Samantha?”

I nod. Mission: Make the New Girl Feel Accepted er, well, _accepted_. Such is the responsibility of the power vested in me as Sophomore Student Council President. And, I guess, my desire to be a decent person, or whatever.

I wait in the front on one of the benches until after the first bell rings. I can’t help but tap my foot a bit impatiently. My bag and books are waiting for me in English, so there’s not much else that I can do other than wait. I’m still waiting there when a girl walks right past me and claims the bench closest to the school.

She’s frantically rifling through her bag for something while on the phone with what seems like her mother, sounding increasingly distressed.

_Must be her._

My first thought about Allison Argent is that she’s pretty, with long brown hair and arched brows. Her pale skin glows in the sunlight. _Very pretty_ , I mentally amend, _and stylish too, with that jacket._

She hangs up and nervously tucks a strand of hair behind her ear as I approach her.

“Hey, I’m Sam,” I say, holding out a hand which she gives a rather limp shake. _Still nervous_. “I’m the sophomore class president. I love your jacket!”

She blinks at me. _Ah shit, too enthusiastic, I’ve scared her._ But then a slow grin creeps over her lips. “Oh, thanks!”

I beam at her. “Here, let’s get to English together, and then, uh, I couldn’t help but hear that you needed a pen?” She nods, blushing. “Yeah, you can borrow one from me, though I warn you that most teachers only want you to use pencil for classwork.”

We walk together, chatting about her family, what it’s like to move, and where she moved from, until we finally arrive at English, where the teacher is talking about the assigned summer reading, Kafka’s _Metamorphosis._ I think it’s supposed to be topical, but the only connection I can see lies in the title; somehow, I’m not convinced that going to high school is metaphorically similar to transforming into an insect that becomes more beast than man and eventually is so burdensome to his family that he commits suicide.

Then again, what do I know? I went through puberty when I was twelve, and I’ve never been a teenage boy. Maybe it’s more similar for them.

I introduce Allison to the class and the take my seat, going for a pen, only to see Scott McCall already poised with one. Almost like he was waiting for her. Did they know each other somehow? As far as I’m aware, that’s not possible, considering Allison’s story about constantly moving around, and yet there he is, pen at the ready.

_Almost like he heard her._

_…but we were outside._

If she finds it weird, she barely lets on, instead accepting the pen with a smile. I smell the beginnings of romance: maybe this is just McCall’s supremely awkward way of hitting on her; it wouldn’t be far off for him.

Awkward adolescent mating rituals aside, I focus in on what’s sure to be a boring lesson.

* * *

It was a boring lesson, as I was sure it would be.

And so was the rest of the day, for that matter.

“Ready to go to our lockers?” I ask Allison as she approaches me. “I’ll show you where they are, we’re neighbors!” _God, I sound way too peppy. Why am I acting so peppy? Is it because she’s cute? She is cute._

“Sounds great!” Allison says, not at all put off by the weird attitude I’ve affected for her.

I’m still sorting through my textbooks when the resident mean girl Lydia Martin saunters over. Well, maybe that’s a little too harsh. She’s the Resident Mean Girl, _but_ she’s not just a pretty face who spends half her time in a cute cheerleading skirt and the other half in Louboutin’s—she’s also second in the class. She doesn’t give me the time of day, but she does Allison. She, too, notices how trendy Allison’s jacket is, and is sure to compliment her on it. Lydia’s boyfriend, Resident Asshole and Lacrosse Captain (though sometimes I question whether those are two separate titles, or one in the same), comes over next and _invites Allison to one of his parties, wow._

First day here and she’s already way cooler than I’ll ever be.

_Sigh. It was a pipe dream to think she’d want to be friends with me anyway._

Since they’re ignoring me, I settle for ignoring them right back, while I wait for Allison to finish up, which means that I end up locking eyes with McCall from all the way across the hallway. He’s staring at Allison with furrowed brows, like _he can hear what she’s saying_ —no that can’t be right, he’s just giving her the longing-puppy-dog-eyes of someone thoroughly enamored.

_When will someone look at me like that?_

Heh. Never.

“Lacrosse practice, Sam?” Allison asks.

Oh, she’s inviting me! Quick, say something cool. “Uh, yeah?”

…nailed it.

I toss on my nowhere-near-as-cool jacket and trail the trio to the field, feeling somehow more interesting than I’ve ever been in my high school career, yet even lonelier than I normally would be. And that’s saying something, since I practice this thing called solidarity (mostly willingly; my schedule just tended to be super hectic between all my classes, cross-country, and taking care of dad).

“Who is that?” Allison is asking Lydia when I finally return from my thoughts and back to reality.

“Scott McCall,” I answer for the other girl. I know for a fact that she isn’t even aware of the poor boy’s existence. He’s not “cool” enough for her to. “He’s the one who gave you the pen in English, yeah?”

She nods, and I turn my gaze to where McCall stands at the goal, staring at Allison once more.

“Why do you ask?” Lydia wonders, as though being interested in someone who isn’t on the totem pole is a cardinal sin or, at the very least, tantamount to social suicide.

“Well,” Allison starts, and I notice McCall’s head tilting to the side as though he’s straining to hear something, “I just think he’s—”

The whistle blows and McCall completely spazzes out, like it had been blown directly next to his ear and not half-a-field away from him.

_Something is definitely up._

_And didn’t he need an inhaler to do any sort of physical activity since, well, forever? And yet, I haven’t seen him go for one yet._

_This is getting weird._

He’s still hunched over in agony when a player kills the ball. McCall looks up just in time for the ball to smash into his face guard. He goes down, much to the delight of his teammates, who jeer at him for having “nice hands” and catching it with his face. When he finally rises to his feet, he rolls his shoulders a few times and shakes out his arms. It looks like he’s physically willing himself to do better.

When the next player takes aim, McCall’s ready. This time, he tracks the ball all the way into his own lacrosse stick. His lackey (or, I guess, best friend) Stiles Stilinski, starts cheering for him, but Coach Finstock just looks shocked.

_As he should, because McCall has never been great at lacrosse. That’s why he sat the bench all last year. Even_ I _know that, and I seldom attend games._

As the players take turns shooting, McCall seems to grow more and more confident.

“He’s pretty good,” Allison says happily, cheering for her new gentleman caller.

Lydia struggles not to look impressed. “Yeah,” she agrees.

_“Yeah,”_ I echo, frowning.

“Sam, is something—” Allison starts, but Lydia shushes her as Jackson shoves his way to the front of the line.

He charges forward, leaping in the air and going for a more difficult angle, but McCall still ends up catching the ball anyway.

For some reason, Lydia cheers the loudest, leaping to her feet and clapping. Allison is more subdued, but no less excited.

_As far as I’m aware, he’s never played goalie before and yet he’s playing almost perfect. Maybe he practiced a lot over the summer?_

_No._ I need to trust my instincts on this. Something _weird_ is going on. And I’m going to get to the bottom of it.

* * *

I stay after school late. Late enough that I can use my access card to get into the student files without being questioned by any nosy teachers. I leave the lights out in the room to avoid attracting any unneeded attention and shuffle through the _M_ section first, muttering to myself the whole while.

_It’s not really breaking the rules if McCall broke them first. Because that’s the only explanation. He must be taking some sort of performance enhancing drug or something. So what if this qualifies as fruit from the poisoned tree, no one needs to know that I was confirming my theory by going through the records. Ah—_ McCall!

A doctor’s note on record:

_To whom it may concern—_ blah blah blah. _Please be advised that Scott McCall suffers from exercise induced asthma and should be allowed to use his inhaler accordingly._

But there had been no inhaler in sight today, and he’d been fine. Had he grown out of it or something?

I chance a glance to his address so that I can confront him before school tomorrow. _Damn, that’s a car ride away from me. I need to get home to dad. Maybe—_

I return McCall’s file to its rightful place and go for the _S_ section next.

_Stilinski…Mieczysław?_ _I thought his name was Stiles?_ I shake my head and do a quick peek through his file next. Huh. He takes Adderall for ADHD. Somehow this doesn’t even remotely surprise me. _No, that’s not the point, Sam. Address._

He—he actually lives in my development? Huh. Maybe I could accost him in the morning before school.

I quickly take a picture of his address (and his name, _his real name_ , so that I could learn how to pronounce it) and put his file back. I triple check that I’ve locked the door on my way out of the room, but it’s farther down the hallway that I encounter an issue.

An issue in the form of Jackson Whittemore.

What I _should_ have done is kept my head down and hurried down the hallway like I _didn’t want to be seen_.

But when the sophomore class president sees an upperclassman _breaking into another student’s locker_ , what’s she supposed to do?

Shout: “Whittemore, what the _fuck_ are you doing?!” really loudly, apparently.

_Ah, fuck_.

He turns to me with fire in his eyes and defiantly tosses another one of McCall’s textbooks on the ground. Even from where I stand half a hallway away from him, I can tell that his nostrils are flaring.

_He’s pissed._

“What?” he drawls casually, throwing down a notebook this time.

I huff. “Going through McCall’s things? Really? Are you _that_ mad that he did better than you today?”

He regards me with no small amount of irritation. I try not to hesitate as I draw closer. “You were there today, weren’t you?” he asks caustically. There’s another loud _slam_ as McCall’s history textbook hits the linoleum. “You look smart enough, _Sanchez_. We both know he’s never been that good at anything in his _life_. He played _unbelievably today._ That doesn’t just happen.” A spare sweatshirt is the final item McCall’s locker has left to offer. It lands like a white flag between us, because I _know_ he’s not wrong. Hadn’t I just been following the same intuition?

I can fault his methodology, but I can’t deny his motivation.

“He must be doping,” Jackson finishes, looking at me from under furrowed brows. “Has to be.”

I make a decision right then and there, one that will forever alter the course of my life. “Something’s fishy,” I agree, “but you’re not going to get any results by crashing around. We don’t _want_ McCall to know that we’re onto him. This requires a more _…delicate touch._ ”

His blue eyes narrow at my words, and then I’m being shoved into the locker. “I swear to God, if you say you’re going to tell the administration, Little Miss Brown-noser—”

I scoff. Internally, however, I’m practically peeing myself in fear. “What I’m _saying_ is that McCall’s in my year, and he’s not terrified of me. You and I should work together.”

His grip on my jacket slowly relents and then he’s backing away, running a hand through his sandy blonde hair. He considers me after a long moment. “You know what, Sanchez, that’s actually not a bad idea.”

And that’s how I got involved in this mess.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samantha makes an interesting discovery, hits on Stiles, and learns a few things about herself along the way.

Jackson doesn’t keep his promise. Of _course_ he doesn’t.

It doesn’t matter because I have my own agenda, one that doesn’t involve harassing McCall in the middle of a busy hallway, although I haven’t managed to get around to questioning Stilinski yet anyway.

The only _good_ thing Jackson does is recap his conversation with McCall with me: apparently, McCall has been seeing, hearing, and smelling things that he shouldn’t. Now, what that means is beyond me, but even still I have to wonder; is he doing drugs (which seems almost completely out of character for him) or is there something _else_ going on? Jackson doesn’t even consider the validity of the latter option, but it seems like he’s disturbed, nonetheless. I think that comes more so from the fact that he believes McCall is fucking with him.

I disagree. I think McCall’s rant about sleepwalking three miles into the woods and thinking he’s going crazy is the most honest he’s been in the last week.

Jackson also invites me to the party he’s hosting following the scrimmage, which we both agree is as good a place as any for me to lure Stilinski away for a much-needed interrogation.

Stilinski, for his part, does _his_ best to give me more ammunition, as he loudly announces that there was _wolf_ hair found on the body in the woods. Now, why the two of them had seemingly been lurking around in the woods on the night that dead body was found, I don’t know, but the _wolf hair_ part is interesting. I’m not an idiot; I know that there haven’t been _wolves_ in California in, like, sixty years or so.

So, as Allison and I watch the scrimmage, I can’t help but entertain other options.

Wolves.

Heightened senses—could he be— _no, it’s not possible._

I shake myself from my thoughts in time to admit that Jackson’s needling is working; in an impressive display, Scott takes the ball from one end of the field to the other and scores an impossible shot, complete with a flip. _Not possible._

_And yet—_

Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true.

_Scott McCall may or may not be a werewolf._

Shit.

Shitfuck.

Something tells me that mentioning this little revelation to Jackson would be a bad idea. He’s already practically green with envy about McCall playing so well, and that’s without knowing his _potential_ status as a werewolf. Jackson wouldn’t take the news lying down; he’s liable to go out there and demand that Scott turn him into a werewolf too. _Just so that he can go back to being the best at lacrosse again, if for no ulterior motives._

I’m really going to have to get Stilinski to talk to me.

* * *

Allison ends up going with wolf-wonder to Jackson’s party. I’m not too bothered, since I have something of a schedule to keep at this thing.

First things first, down a few shots of liquid courage.

Second things second, find _Mieczysław_ “Stiles” Stilinski.

For someone who would qualify as very deeply “uncool” on Lydia Martin’s ranked list, Stilinski is surrounded by people who are laughing at a joke he’s just told. I find myself lingering on the outskirts of the circle, trying to determine the best way to get him alone. Jackson’s recommendation, for once, is actually quite clever; act like I’m seducing Stilinski and then cart him off to a bedroom where no one would hear us. Jackson had even told me I could use his room.

The only problem is, I’ve never seduced anyone. Not in my whole life.

Jackson had derisively asked if I needed lessons, a sneer etched into his face all the while, but I’d told him that I could figure it out on my own just fine, _thanks._

But hadn’t I seen plenty of seduction in movies, read some smutty romance novels, been subjected to Jackson and Lydia’s flirting during lunch the past few days? All I have to do is replicate it. It’s just pretending.

So, I wind my way up to Stilinski— _Stiles,_ I mentally amend, _since it feels weird to call the guy I’m trying to hit on by his last name—_ and try to make out what he’s saying. It sounds like he’s making jokes at Coach Finstock’s expense, and considering how over-the-top Coach is, I can’t say that I blame Stiles.

“Hey, you’re Stiles, right?” I ask as I approach him, biting at my lower lip in a manner that I hope is enticing and arching a single brow.

His red solo cup freezes half-way to his mouth, and he clears his throat. Twice. “Uh, yeah?”

 _Nervous. I can work with that._ “I’m Samantha. My…” I trail off, bat my lashes. “My _friends_ call me Sammy.” _Liar. You don’t have any friends._ Still, this is proving easier by the second. It’s like I’ve slipped into a second skin.

He gulps down the rest of his beer. _Very nervous._ “Uh, yeah, hi?”

I lean closer, giving him a nice look at my cleavage. He takes the bait, his eyes dipping down to my chest. _Game over._ “You know, Stiles, you’re _really_ funny.”

He coughs, his ears steadily turning bright red. He’s about to reply when I see his attention flit over my shoulder. “Hey!” he calls, brows furrowed in concern. “You okay, man?”

I turn in time to see McCall walk by in a fugue-like state, all pale and sweaty and sickly looking. To say the least, he doesn’t look so hot. To say the most, he looks like complete and utter shit.

Stiles doesn’t give me a second glance as he shoves past me and after his friend, but I’m quick on his heels.

Fuck subtlety. We tried that and we got interrupted. It’s a full moon and McCall looks like he’s on his death bed; if I’m getting answers, it’s now or never.

We arrive outside just in time to see McCall get into his car and drive away. Allison stares after him with her arms crossed, looking upset. I almost forget my mission and start to approach her to offer some words of comfort, but then an older-looking guy comes up to her. I have to wonder what someone who looks like they’re twenty-five is doing at a high school party, and why he’s currently talking to an underage girl, but then I notice Stiles making a beeline for his Jeep, and my attention is sufficiently snatched.

Before he can open the driver’s side door, I reach out a hand and slam it shut with more strength than I’ve ever thought I might possess. With one last step, I’ve closed the distance between us, pressing him into the cool metal. I brace my left hand on the window right next to his face, enjoying his wide-eyed gaze. “Where are you going?” I practically purr. “We were having such a good conversation.”

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. He clears his throat. Again. “Uh—nowhere, I was just—”

“Listen, _Mieczysław_ ,” I say in a taunting tone. His eyes are practically the size of dinner plates right now, and I _relish_ in it. “I know about him. About Scott.”

Stiles stutters out a _“what about him”_ but his eyes keep darting to the left. If there’s one thing I’ve learned tonight _besides_ the fact that McCall is 100% a werewolf (if one believes in such things, that is), it’s that Stiles is an absolutely _horrid_ liar.

I glance up. “Full moon tonight, huh?” I ask casually.

He gulps again. This time it’s audible. Either they’re buying into their own bullshit, or this isn’t some kind of joke. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I shake my head. “Here’s what’s going to happen, Stilinski; you and I are going to take a ride over to McCall’s to check up on him, and on the way there, you’re going to explain _everything._ ”

He makes to protest, but I lean closer still and whisper, “Please, _Mieczysław?”_ right in his ear. There’s something almost hypnotic about my voice right then, something so persuasive and mesmerizing that he _has_ to listen, almost like I’ve forced him to.

He nods and I slowly step away, unable to believe that it’s worked. _How did I do that? Am I just that convincing?_

Somehow, I don’t think the answer to that question is _yes._

* * *

About half-way through the drive to McCall’s, Stiles snaps out of whatever trance he’s in—whatever trance _I’ve_ put him in—and he’s _not happy_. He’s in the middle of explaining his research of wolfsbane, aka monkshood, aka aconite (something I know from _Harry Potter, thank you very much_ ) when it happens. I can tell because he cuts himself off abruptly, his mouth falling open in shock.

“What—how did you _do_ that?!” he demands angrily, taking a turn more sharply than he perhaps should. “It’s like I didn’t have any control—how?!” He pulls over shortly thereafter so he can give me his full attention, but it’s to tell me to get out of his car.

I hold up my hands. “Listen, I have no idea. It just…happened. I can’t explain it.” I hesitate, mulling over the beginnings of another Bad Idea. “I don’t know, maybe if werewolves are real, then so are other things. Or maybe I’m just super eloquent.”

Stiles’ gaze is searching as he tries to suss out whether or not I’m fucking with him. Spoiler: I’m not. “Fine,” he says, “let’s say I believe you. Don’t _ever_ do that again.”

I shrug. “I wasn’t trying to do it. I just wanted you to _listen_ to me. And it happened.”

He opens and closes his mouth a few times before it settles into a firm line. “Whatever.” Then, interestingly, his cheeks flush. “How’d you learn that name, anyway? No one knows my _actual_ name, not even Scott.”

I can feel my own cheeks going red. “I—well, I _may_ have looked through your file.”

I watch as he physically bites his tongue, whether out of amusement or confusion I can’t say. “You looked through my file? As in the student records?”

I nod bashfully. “I suspected something was up with Scott when he gave Allison that pen even though I know for a fact that she had told me she needed one when we were _outside the school_. There was no way that he could have heard her. And then, he kept seeming to hear things that were impossible. And I thought I remembered that he used an inhaler so I…” I trail off, huff out a breath, “So I looked through his file and found out he has—or had, I guess—exercise induced asthma. I went through you records while I was there to see if I was missing anything.”

Stiles is nodding to himself as he pulls away from the side of the road. I guess I’m trustworthy enough that he’ll take me to McCall’s regardless. “Good pronunciation,” he finally mutters.

“What?”

He keeps his gaze staunchly on the road. “On my name,” he mumbles.

I keep the fact that spent ten minutes of Googling and practicing to myself.

* * *

When we pull up to McCall’s, Stiles tells me that I should wait in the car: because it’s a full moon, McCall’s bloodlust will be at an all-time high. Apparently, he nearly attacked Stiles the other day, so there’s no telling what he’ll do upon learning that a complete stranger has learned his deepest, darkest secret—a secret that, by the sound of it, he has yet to come to terms with himself.

It’s on these grounds that I agree to wait in the Jeep, though I’m not alone for very long: soon enough, I see a dark shadow—probably McCall—jump dramatically _out his bedroom window_ and sprint away. Not too soon after, Stiles rushes back into the Jeep.

He’s practically gasping for breath when he starts the Jeep again. “Allison’s address,” he says in a rush, the words blurring together. “You’re friends with her, what is it?!”

Despite my better judgement, I give it to him. “What’s wrong?” I ask as he throws the car into gear.

“She went home with Derek Hale,” Stiles says, as though that should mean something to me.

“Derek Hale?” Still, the name rings a bell for some reason.

“He’s only a few years older than us. His whole family died, Scott and I saw him in the woods and he had Scott’s inhaler, andhemayhavebeentheonewhobitScottandturnedhimintoawerewolf.”

I stare at him blankly until he gets the hint that he needs to slow down. Once he’s finished, I raise my eyebrows in disbelief. “Why don’t I just call her?” I ask. “We don’t need to go and freak out her parents if it turns out to be nothing.”

We jerk to a stop as Stiles considers what I said. “What if Derek is there and he’s got, like, his talons to her throat and he forces her to say she’s okay, but she isn’t?”

I roll my eyes. “Dude, FaceTime.”

He shakes his head. “No, I told Scott I would check on her.”

And that’s how we end up at the Argent household at nearly midnight.

* * *

I insist that Stiles let me go in alone, but he, of course, doesn’t listen. We screech to a stop outside what can only be described as a mansion, _holy shit her family has money_ , and Stiles rushes to the door. He rings the bell half a dozen times and then starts slamming his open palm against the door.

He’s about to do so again when I catch his hand and pull him away. It’s just in time for Mrs. Argent to open the door, a scowl etched deep into her face.

Stiles tries to explain that Allison might have been kidnapped, but all he ends up saying is “this is going to sound crazy, well, insane, actually,” and even calls himself Allison’s friend. He’s never even spoken to her, and I’ve been hanging out with her for the past few days and even _I’m_ not sure if she considers me a friend. She’s just so damn nice to everyone that it’s hard to tell if she’s treating me like a friend, or just being friendly.

I place a hand on Stiles’ arm to try and shush him, but he blunders on until Mrs. Argent finally gets fed up and calls for Allison, who appears at the bannister in record time. When she sees Stiles and I, she crosses her arms in irritation, but comes outside. She firmly closes the door behind her, but I have no doubts that her mother is eavesdropping from behind the elegantly carved oak anyway.

“First Scott leaves me stranded and now you two show up?” she hisses, but only manages to sound more upset than angry.

Stiles stutters out an apology, but I try and salvage the situation and our hesitant friendship. “Sorry, Allison, I got dropped off by my mom, so I couldn’t give you a ride, and then I saw you talking to Derek. He got you home okay?”

A frown still mars her beautiful features. “Yeah, I guess, but why did Scott bail?”

I can’t help what happens next. “I’m not sure _Allison, but you should give him the benefit of the doubt.”_

Her expression evens out slowly. “Yeah, you’re right,” she says, in the same trance-like voice Stiles had affected earlier. She shakes her head. “I’m going to bed. I’ll see you Monday, okay, Samantha?”

Oof. My full name. I smile anyway and watch her furrowed brows relax. “Sounds good. Good night, Allison.”

The door echoes in the quiet night even though she shuts it softly.

Stiles turns to me with an accusing finger. “You did that witchy thing again.”

“Witchy?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know what else to call it. By the way,” he says, “your name is Samantha?”

I groan. “Did I not introduce myself to you like an hour ago?”

I can’t believe this is what my life has come to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to get to know me better? Want to connect with other people who enjoyed Sweet Dreams? check out my discord! https://discord.gg/2WnPza8


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story has gotten a pretty good response on FFnet, which is why I'm updating it, but please remember to comment and leave kudos!

I try to corner Stiles outside of English so we can discuss what happened this weekend, but he dismisses me and chases after Scott, tossing an "after practice!" over his shoulder.

The rest of the day passes agonizingly slowly. The best part of it is listening to Allison rant for twenty minutes about how much of an asshole Scott is, but how he must have a good reason; she goes back and forth between being pissed at him, and then giving him the benefit of the doubt. I'm not sure if it's because of what I did to her the other night, where I somehow _commanded_ her to _stop being mad_ at Scott, or if it's just general cognitive distortion, but it's kind of hilarious.

I'm standing at my locker when I see Stiles making a beeline for the door. I chase him all the way to the locker room, but he outpaces me. I lurk there for a little while and I'm just about to leave when Jackson rounds the hallway.

"Sam," he greets me like we're old friends. Newsflash: we aren't. "Make any progress with Stilinski?"

I decide then and there that lying is probably my best bet. "He left after Scott, so I never got to talk to him that night," I huff, which isn't entirely false. "I don't know, I'm working on it, Whittemore."

"Jackson," he corrects, leaning on his shoulder against the wall beside me. "After all," he smirks, "we are _partners_ ," he finishes in a purr, looming nearer to me.

I take a step forward without thinking about why, lightly rest a hand on his bicep. It's natural. It feels _right, why does it feel right? Not Jackson, but_ this, _this contact, flirting, playing with emotions, why does it feel so normal when I've never done it before?_

Almost as abruptly, I pull away, like I've been yanked back into my own body. "I'm not one of your _toys_ , Whittemore," I stress, like I'd been playing the part of one of his fangirls, and not just acted like one without knowing why. It was just like whatever had come over me the other day with Stiles, and I couldn't explain it.

He scoffs, as though the idea that someone might _not_ want him is ludicrous. "Whatever you say, _Sammy_." He taps lightly at his temple. "Meet me after lacrosse practice. We should, uh, _put our heads together_ again, yeah?"

Figuring I might as well kill two birds with one stone, I agree.

Since my dad had finally felt well enough to go back to the office today, I would be alone until around seven o'clock tonight when he and my mom would come home. So long as I leave myself enough time to make dinner and get my homework done, there's no issue in me staying at school a little longer.

When I arrive at the field, Coach Finstock is harassing one of the students again, egging him to move faster and comparing him to his dead grandmother. Finstock is kind of an asshole like that, but there's no denying that his efforts have enjoyed a certain amount of success, considering our win streak.

Even still, I figured it was my duty to say something to him. As class president, I should probably report him to administration, especially since he was right up in the poor kid's face, shouting at him.

He's already in the midst of mockingly saying, "McCall's gonna do it again!" when I register that he's just been prodding at a literal wolf _and that probably isn't a good idea._ McCall bends his knees, preparing to make another go at the defense—at _Jackson_ , Jackson who doesn't know McCall is about to fucking Hulk out.

Shit.

I race towards the field faster than I'd known I could run, but I'm too late to stop anything from happening. It feels like it happens in slow motion; my eyes lock with Jackson's the second before McCall _crashes_ into him with all the speed of a freight train, and then Jackson is knocked clean off his feet.

He's already moaning in pain when I reach him, his arm cradled at an awkward angle. It doesn't take a medical license for me to tell it's broken. I wince. "I don't think you're playing in that game, Whittemore."

When he opens his eyes, the pain in them does little to dispel his absolute _fury_. "Follow them," he growls, nodding jerkily to where Stiles is leading McCall off the field. The movement must bring a fresh bout of pain because he grimaces. I wonder if he's got a concussion, too. _"Now,_ Sanchez."

I leap to my feet as Finstock and the rest of the team start closing in on Jackson, and run after the Scott and Stiles, but freeze when I see a familiar, dark-haired man standing by the bleachers.

"Derek Hale," I greet, eyeing him suspiciously. "Little old to be hanging out at a high school lacrosse practice, don't you think?"

His blue eyes are sharp. They narrow at me as he replies, "I only graduated a few years ago."

I'm not about to let it go so easily. "So, you have nothing better to do than ogle minors? Is that how all werewolves are, or is it just you?"

His expression is not amused, and I realize too late that I might have shown my hand too soon; I shouldn't have let the werewolf out of the bag for a cheap joke.

And then he _laughs_. "Funny, coming from a _succubus,"_ he spits the word like it's dirty, like he can't wait to get it out of his mouth, and then he lets it linger for a beat before turning on his heel, his dramatic exit complete. "Keep an eye on Scott, Sanchez," he tosses over his shoulder as he saunters away.

_Succubus, huh?_

I barely allow myself to register the word before I'm off again.

* * *

When I enter the locker room, Stiles' back is to me and he's wielding a fire extinguisher like a weapon. McCall, meanwhile, is covered from head to toe in white foam. I'm not sure I want to know what's happened, but all I can think to say is, "We're going to have to report this."

Stiles starts, not having known that I was behind him. "R-report?" he splutters out, "Sam, we can't—"

"Not McCall, you idiot," I say with another roll of my eyes. "The fire extinguisher. It's a safety hazard to have one that's half-used. We're going to have to report it so that the school knows it needs to be replaced."

They both gape at me like _I'm_ the crazy one.

"Well, what's our excuse, then?" I ask, crossing my arms. "Why did you use the extinguisher?"

Stiles looks comically between me, McCall, and the aforementioned cylindrical object that he's currently clutching to his chest, as though he had forgotten that it was there. "I, well—maybe…" he coughs, and I watch his fingers flex on the pin in his left hand. At my knowing look, he hastily puts the pin back in the extinguisher. His shoulders slump. "I've got nothing," he admits.

McCall is still looking at me. "Does she—" his dark brows furrow, his voice cracks— "dude, did you _tell_ —"

Stiles looks panicked. "No! I didn't—I wouldn't—"

I decide to have mercy on them both. "No, I figured it out myself. Neither of you is as subtle as you'd like to think." I launch into a short explanation of how I'd found him out, replacing the extinguisher on the wall as I do. I wipe off the whole thing with the end of my shirt as I speak; discharging an extinguisher without a purpose could be considered a crime worthy of investigation, so it only makes sense to get rid of any fingerprints. Once that's done, I gently remove the pin again. I wipe down the metal one last time before dropping it on the floor. "There," I conclude, turning to face them.

They're both wearing dumbfounded expressions.

I roll my eyes. "Now one of you can report that the pin had been removed before you got in here," I say in measured tones, like I'm explaining a particularly complex math problem to a first grader. Their expressions remain vacant. "Well, _I_ can't do it," I elaborate. "This is the _boys_ locker room; I can't be here."

They remain silent.

I roll my eyes again, this time a little more aggressively. "Well? Go take a shower, McCall. And Stiles, we need to figure out what I'm going to tell Whittemore, he's the one who told me to come after you. Also, I may have talked to that weird older guy who's been hanging around the high school, Derek Hale? And he mentioned me being a…succor, seacucumber, succ—"

"Succubus?" Stiles supplies, finally snapping out of his stupor, a wild look in his warm brown eyes. He scrambles for his phone, presumably to start researching, and I shake my head at his excitement.

"What happened?" McCall finally asks, sounding breathless.

Stiles looks up from his phone just as abruptly as he had taken it out. "You tried to kill me," he says in somber tones, then shoots me a glance before continuing, "look, it's like I told you before: when you get angry, your pulse rises, and it's a trigger."

I nod along, deep in thought. What Stiles is saying makes sense. "And then you wolf-out," I conclude, and Stiles nods emphatically in response. McCall—or I guess Scott, now, considering how well I'm getting to know him—shoots me a look as though he can't believe I'm still here. "If that's the case, then it stands to reason that any time your pulse rises—" I start.

"He'll wolf-out," Stiles finishes. "Which might mean any time you're excited—"

"Or anxious, or scared, or aroused," I add, tapping my chin. I pause. "That's a lot of triggers."

Scott looks distressed and a little embarrassed. "But that's lacrosse, if you haven't noticed, it's a violent sport. And Al—"

"Well, it's going to be a lot more violent if you end up killing someone on the field," Stiles cuts in. When he speaks next, his words come out in a half-sigh. "You can't play on Saturday," he says seriously. "You're going to have to get out of the game."

_Get out of the game, huh?_

"But I'm first line!" Scott protests. It's a rather weak excuse, especially considering the circumstances, but neither Stiles nor I choose to comment.

"Not anymore," Stiles says, running a hand through his short hair. "I'm sorry, Scott."

The three of us are silent for a long moment until I finally come to grips with what's been nagging me.

I pound my hand into my palm in realization. "I've got it," I drawl in mild amusement. "Stiles, you can tell the Principal that Scott was fucking around with the extinguisher. Then you don't have to make up an excuse to get out of the game because you'll genuinely be in trouble, and I won't have to feel bad about lying, because technically, you are the reason why the extinguisher got discharged in the first place."

Scott stands there, frozen. "My mom would _kill_ me!" he finally exclaims, pushing his long hair back with both hands in frustration. "Oh my god, what are we going to do about the extinguisher, anyway?"

I shrug. "There aren't any fingerprints or anything on it; just do what I said earlier. Administration will probably believe you because it's a locker room and, more importantly, it's the _boys'_ locker room. This kind of thing probably happens more frequently than you'd believe."

Scott just shakes his head, starting back towards the showers.

"S-so," Stiles stutters out as soon as we're alone. I'm already half-way to the door by this point, but I freeze in place. "I was thinking," he says, "wouldyouliketocomeovertoresearchtoday?"

I spin slowly on my heel and blink at him. "What now?"

He takes a deep breath, his cheeks flushed scarlet. "I was thinking," he says at a more even pace, "that maybe you could come over and we could research what Derek called you. A succubus, right?"

I bite my lip, noticing absently that his eyes are tracking the motion. A surge of _something_ goes through me at the observation, but I put it aside for later. "I—yeah. Okay."

And with that, I've sealed my own fate, permanently entwining it with that of the two idiots in front of me who can't even figure out how to break school rules properly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic now has a discord! Please join me there if you want more content https://discord.gg/phzUsxX

**Author's Note:**

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